


Kinda dark there, for a moment

by Handsome_Shark



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Crying, Fever, Gen, Hallucinations, Honestly I wrote this for me but you can read it if you want, Hurt/Comfort, Isolation, No Incest, Panic Attacks, Sickfic, Solitary Confinement, Touch-Starved, Whump, as much comfort as one could possibly give to a serial killer, kind of, martin whitly whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:35:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23237044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Handsome_Shark/pseuds/Handsome_Shark
Summary: No one came back to tell Martin that Malcolm was safe after he had escaped Watkins
Comments: 20
Kudos: 92





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is not shippy fic, and it is not meant to be interpreted as such. 
> 
> I know Martin is a garbage human, but i love garbage characters. Anyway, I just wanted some Martin whump, after we saw him all wobbly when Gil was talking to him, and then the panic attack? I just needed more.
> 
> And listen. We all know that Claremont apparently plays it real fast and loose with visitation and rules in general.

Martin is sure he’s in hell. 

Well, he’s still in a god forsaken isolation cell, but it may as well be his own personal hell. He’d never admit it outloud, that would mean admitting defeat.

He is stuck in this small cell, nothing but a bed, and his son was dead. 

And he was in hell. 

His son was probably dead, he has to try to remind himself, constantly. That goddamned lieutenant had been so sure Malcolm was still alive, and if he was honest with himself, he knew Malcolm could outsmart anyone. His boy could do anything. 

But he knew John Watkins, had mentored him for a while. They had history, and more importantly, Malcolm and John had history. Just thinking about it made his blood run cold. No one knew Watkins like he did. 

So his son was, in all probability dead, but there was a small percentage he wasn’t. 

It’s getting harder to convince himself. It had been at least two weeks, he figured, since he had been dragged back into his isolation cell in a benzodiazepine induced daze. 

He waits for that lieutenant to come back and tell him he was wrong. To rub it in his face that Malcolm was still alive, and that he’d been so wrong to not believe in him. He’d hate every second of that conversation, but he’d take it, because it would mean that his son was alive

He never comes. 

He waits for Jessica, or Ainsley to come and break the bad news to him. Anyone at this point. No one comes. 

He asks for news, anytime an orderly drops off his lunch or dinner, anytime he hears footsteps in the hall he asks. He even tried to appeal to their emotions, begging and crying for any news, even just a confirmation, a simple yes or no. 

No one ever responds, no one even acknowledges he’s said anything. 

Being put into isolation had been very hard on him before he’d gotten the devastating news about his son. Martin knows himself well enough, know’s that he needs a certain amount of interaction, even if that interaction was with Mr. David. He at least had someone to talk to, a distraction. 

But after? It was pure torture. Martin would kill, and the irony of that thought isn’t lost on him, for one distraction. Something besides sitting on his shitty mattress and staring at the wall. 

He wasn’t even allowed the privilege of recreation time. He spent every minute alone in his cell, except when he was allowed to have a shower. The guard who escorted him never spoke to him. 

He misses his cell, his journals and book and music, anything that would take his mind off the fact that his son was dead!

It’s enough to make him scream. He does a lot of that. When all he can think about are all the ways Watkins might have killed Malcolm, he screams, he screams until his voice is hoarse and his throat is sore. He pulls at his cuffs in his rage, fighting against being bound, bruising his wrists in the process. 

And still no one comes to tell him to shut up, to threaten even more punishment. 

Sometimes he just sits on the cold concrete floor, back against the door, and talks, hoping that someone on the other side could hear him, that he might sway them in his favor. 

And once, when he’d gotten particularly frustrated, he threw himself against the door. But the only thing he’d managed to do was hurt himself.

Sleep wasn’t even a viable escape. It’s very hard to get comfortable when you have handcuffs on all the time, and even when he could, he had nightmares. Vision after vision of Watkins forcing him to watch as he kills his son in new and imaginative ways. 

He’s officially lost track of the time he’s spent in isolation since he’d lost his son. He is unable to keep himself from thinking about it anymore, he doesn’t have the energy to fight it. 

He’s exhausted, running on not nearly enough sleep and entirely too much anxiety. He curled up on his thin mattress, on an uncomfortable cot, a blanket, just as thin as the mattress, pulled haphazardly over his lap. Not that it did much against the chill in the room. 

Martin isn’t even aware he’s coming down with something, his throat raw and sore already from screaming, shivering from the cold, tired down to his bones from not sleeping. 

And when he does recognize that his symptoms might not be all self inflicted, he’s too far gone to really do anything about it. 

He tries to tell someone he was ill, that he needs to see the doctor, anytime someone passes outside his door. 

No one listened, or rather, he figured no one believed him. He’d have to wait until someone finally came into his cell, then they’d see.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if any of y'all have any requests for whumpy martin stories you may like to see, feel free to leave a comment, and i'll see what i can do, no promises, but i will try!

Malcolm, at his mother's insistence, does not go to see his father after he’s released from the hospital. He had kind of decided that he was not going to do it anyway, on his own. Not after the bomb John Watkins had dropped on him. 

But at the same time, no matter how much he fought it, something inside of him was drawn to Claremont, drawn to his father. He could not stay away. He could not add this new version of his father with the others that currently resided inside his head. 

He wanted, no he needed to confront Martin about this. 

There was one version of his father, when he remembered better times, he remembered fondly as his dad. There were so many happy memories tied to that version. Then there was the serial killer version of his father, the one he himself had called the police on. The man with 23 kills under his belt, and probably more. But he hadn’t ever really felt that _he_ was in danger from him. 

He had lived with those two versions of his father, had come to terms that he would never be able to separate the two in his mind. Serial killer Martin Whitly was his father as much as the Martin Whitly who had tucked him in and read him bedtime stories. Even if he didn’t want to admit that. 

Now, thanks to John Watkins, Malcolm had a brand new version of Martin Whitly to terrorize him. He closes his eyes and sees his father, now with murderous intent in his eyes, set on him. He sees himself dead, silenced so that he father could keep killing. 

He was struggling to say the least. He desperately needed closure and the only person who could give it to him was sitting in solitary confinement at Claremont Psychiatric. 

Which might prove to be an issue, but he’s confident he can talk them into letting him see his father. He’s spent enough time there that all of the staff know him well. 

When he calls Claremont, they tell him what he already knows. 

_‘Martin Whitly is currently being held in solitary confinement, and it’s unknown when he may be released.’_

Malcolm insists that it’s really very important, it could make a break a case he’s working on, and he can’t afford to wait. 

_”Dr. Whitly is not permitted to receive visitors at the moment.”_

It takes a lot of talking and a little manipulation, but Malcolm is decidedly good at that, so eventually he gets them to agree. Besides, he knows his father, and there is no way he’d ever turn down a visit from him. The only condition is that he’ll be required to meet with him in the isolation cell. 

Malcolm agrees, though he thinks that it is a little odd, but he’s not about to question it.

When he arrives, Mr. David is there to meet him. 

“Malcolm, Martin might not be up for a visitor right now.” Mr. David warns him. “Are you sure you want to do this today?”

“Yes, I’m positive.” Malcolm says. “Besides, when has he ever been anything but excited to see me.”

Mr. David doesn’t look convinced, but doesn’t argue, mostly because he can’t argue against that statement.  
He escorts Malcolm down to the isolation ward, but stops in front of one of the cells, and pauses. 

“Look, Malcolm, I want you to know that I do not altogether agree with how they have decided to handle your father's punishment. But I want you to know it was not my call and I have to follow orders.” Mr. David explains. 

Before Malcolm can ask any questions or get any clarification, Mr. David unlocks the door and opens it. 

Malcolm steps inside the small cell that had been his father's home for a few months now, the door closing behind him with a thud and loud metallic clang as the lock is engaged. 

He could not have been prepared for what he saw. 

Martin is huddled on his cot, curled up under a sheet, looking more unkempt than Malcolm has ever seen him before. His hair is grown out, curls messy and unruly, beard overgrown and scruffy. 

He’s pale and staring at the opposite wall with unfocused, bloodshot eyes, he doesn’t even seem to notice that anyone has entered the cell with him. 

“Dr. Whitly?” Malcolm calls, Mr. David’s warning now makes a little more sense. “Hello?” He waves his hand, trying to get Martin's attention, leaning over so he’s in his line of sight. 

Martin's eyes track movement in his peripheral, focusing enough to see Malcolm standing in his cell. 

He sits up, a little too quickly, having to brace himself when the room spins at the movement, the worm swimming around him. He shakes his head, blinking slowly, it takes a minute for him to process exactly what he’s seeing, if he’s really seeing his son. 

“Malcolm.” Martin says, his voice coming out rough and broken. 

“Dr. Whitly.”

Martin heaves a great sigh. “My own hallucination, and you can’t even call me dad.” he says, frowning as he slumps back, leaning against the wall behind him. “‘Suppose I really do deserve that.”

Malcolm’s eyes widen in surprise. 

‘A hallucination?’ He thinks to himself, he looks over his shoulder to see if Mr. David is watching through the door, but he’s not, which is not unusual when he visits. 

He can’t stop his frown from deepening when he takes a better look at Martin. He’s pale and drawn, dark bags under his eyes. And it sounded to him like he'd been screaming, if the sound of his voice was any indication. 

What series of events could have led to Martin being in this condition. 

Because it’s immediately obvious to Malcolm that Martin is not doing well. Maybe that’s on purpose, he thinks, he is in solitary for punishment, it’s not supposed to be comfortable. 

Still, he can’t stop something that might possible be concern from bubbling up in his chest. 

“Sorry about that,” Malcolm says, deciding to play along for a second. 

“No, my boy, I should be the one apologizing” Martin says, voice thick. He looks over at Malcolm through half lidded eyes, sighing heavily. “I never should have allowed John anywhere near my family.”

“That was maybe not the smartest thing you’ve done.” Malcolm agrees. 

“It was naive.” Martin says. “Thinking I could control him.”

“Maybe… maybe you’d still be alive.” Martin chokes on the last word, voice cracking, tears starting to well up in his eyes. He was losing control again, all the emotions he’d rather not feel sitting in his chest, threatening to suffocate him. He hunches over even more, his shoulder shaking as he fights and fails to hold back his tears, his cuffed hands rubbing haphazardly at his eyes. “You’d still be here.”

“Fuck.” Malcolm whispers.

He realizes several things, very rapidly. 

Gil had let him know, while he was in the hospital, that he had gone to Claremont to speak to Martin. He was willing to do anything to find Watkins, and in turn find Malcolm. And Martin had the background to know where he might go. 

He’d even told Malcolm about his father's reaction when Gil broke the news to him that Watkins had kidnapped his son. How Martin had been convinced that he was dead already. Had been so affected by that particular news it had triggered a panic attack. 

It hadn’t occurred to him that no one had given his father the news that he was safe, still alive. Martin had been sitting in isolation for weeks now, under the impression that he was dead, and he was clearly not taking it very well. 

And if that wasn’t a hell of a revelation in itself. How is he supposed to align this Martin, torn up over the apparent death of his son, with a version of Martin who had possibly brought him on a trip specifically to kill him?

Watching his father essentially have a breakdown in front of him should probably make Malcolm feel good. It should be justified, being the cause of mental trauma for Martin. He’s been through enough on his own, all thanks to him, so it’s honestly only fair. 

But he’s never seen his father cry before, and it feels wrong to be witnessing this now. 

It’s not right to be witnessing this and it does not sit right with him. 

Malcolm takes a deep breath, feeling like he’s on super shaky ground. He needs to talk to his father, but if he wants to do that anytime soon, he’s going to have to fix this first. 

He takes a hesitant step towards the metal framed bed, mind going a mile a minute, trying to formulate some sort of game plan. He squats down next to the bed, and now that he’s closer, he can see that Martin isn’t just shaking because he’s crying, he’s shivering, fine tremors racking his entire body.

“Dr. Whitly?” Malcolm says, keeping his voice low and soft, but Martin shows no response. 

Malcolm sighs, looking at the ceiling.

“Dad,” Malcolm says, the word rolls awkwardly off his tongue, but what he hates most is how natural it still feels to call him that. How much he’s missed it, even after everything that’s happened. 

Martin gasps, hands falling away from his face, staring at Malcolm. He laughs, but it’s not a happy one, it’s the broken laugh of a man who had wanted nothing more than to hear his son call him dad again. Just not like this. 

“I’m sorry.” Martin chokes out, all of the emotions he’s not used to feeling are constricting around his chest, he can’t control it and he hates it. 

He ends up curling back into himself, any words coming out of his mouth devolving into rambling, mumbled sentences, with his face hidden away in the palms of his hands. Each breath he takes comes faster than the last, turning into a wheeze. 

Malcolm watches this unfold, almost unbelieving. He recognizes immediately that his father is having another panic attack. He’s had enough of them to recognize it when he sees one. 

Hearing second hand that he’d had one, was one thing, but seeing it for himself was a whole other thing entirely. 

If someone had asked Malcolm this morning if he would ever witness his father succumb to the grips of anxiety like this, he would have laughed. He wouldn’t have even been able to imagine it, but Martin Whitly was sitting in front of him, falling apart. 

“Dad, you need to listen to me…” Malcolm says again, placing his good hand on Martin’s knee, and that gets an instantaneous reaction. As soon as his fingers brush against Martin’s leg he just about jumps out of his skin. He yelps, scrambling backward away from Malcolm, right off the edge of the bed. He lands on the cold, hard concrete with a painful thud, tangled in his thin sheet. 

Martin hasn’t been touched in weeks, and that touch, small and seemingly inconsequential, has him feeling like he’s on fire, and simultaneously like he’s been dipped in ice. He struggles against the sheet, panting heavily, trying to get himself upright, but it’s hard when one's hands are cuffed in front of them. 

Malcolm is staring wide eyed and slack jawed. He gives one last glance back at the door, not surprised that the commotion hasn’t attracted anyones attention. 

“Hey, hey, it’s ok.” Malcolm holds his hands up in front of him, as if he were approaching a scared wild animal. “I’m not dead.” He says, trying to feign calm, when he’s really panicking inside too. It feels so bizarre to be trying to comfort his serial killer father, but his life is already so goddamn weird. 

The words _‘not dead_ ping around in Martin’s head, bouncing around the inside of his skull before it finally falls into place, settling into understanding. 

“You’re not…you’re…” Martin stutters, his expression morphs, going through no fewer than three emotions in the span of a few seconds. He’s settled on to his knees as he reaches for Malcolm again, cuffed hands trembling. The irony of that is not lost on Malcolm, either. 

It takes every ounce of strength Malcolm has to not flinch away when Martin’s fingers touch his chest. 

“My boy.” Martin says, choking up for an all new reason, his fingers twisting into the fabric of Malcolm’s shirt. “I thought you were...No one told me…” 

“I didn’t know.” Malcolm says, he’s holding himself so stiffly. He hasn’t touched his father since he was a teenager, and he is really not sure what to expect. Mostly, he was not looking forward to what kind of memories and nightmares this whole situation was going to trigger. “I didn’t know that no one told you.”

Everything is screaming at him to be scared of this man, that this man tried to kill him as a child, but he wasn’t. 

“I was so sure.” Martin pulls Malcolm closer to him by his shirt, clutching him to his chest, wishing he could hug him. “So sure you were dead.” 

“Well, I am decidedly not dead.” Malcolm says, awkwardly patting Martin’s back when he drops his head to rest on Malcolm’s shoulder. 

Martin whispers something unintelligible, shifting so his forehead is pressed against Malcolms neck. 

Malcolm feels like he should be concerned about the fact that Martin felt like he was burning. He was definitely too warm for having been in this chilly cell for days, and definitely too warm to be shivering the way he was. 

A fever would certainly explain a lot. 

“Okaaay.” Malcolm says drawing out the word. Martin seems to be a little calmer now, but still trembling. “How about we get off the floor, yeah?”

Martin just nods, sitting back slightly, his fingers still twisted in malcolms shirt,

“Gonna have to let go, first.” Malcolm says, gently prying his father's hands from his shirt. He doesn’t put up a fight, probably can’t put up one, but looks put out. 

Malcolm stands, and Martin tries to, but his legs feel weak and wobbly, leaving him grabbing for the bed frame to keep from falling to the floor again. 

“Are you, are you feeling ok?” Malcolm asks, even though the answer is fairly obvious, helping his father back up onto the cot. Martin’s hand clasps around his good wrist when he tries to pull away. 

“Don’t go.” Martin gasps, shaking his head, he can’t let him go.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Malcolm says, gently prying Martin's hand from his wrist. “Just want to get soemthing real quick.”

“Wait.” Martin says, as loudly as he can when Malcolm starts to walk away, which given the hoarseness of his voice isn’t that loud at all. He desperately doesn’t want Malcolm to leave, not yet, not when he finally has him back. He tries to get up, tries to stop him from leaving, but only manages to tumble off the cot for the second time that day, knocking the air from his lungs.

Malcolm sighs, ignoring his father's dramatics for now. He pounds on the cell door, calling Mr. David back.

He’s surprised when Mr. David opens the cell door, holding a blanket already. 

“How’d you know?” Malcolm asks, taking the thick blanket. 

“I’ve had to babysit Martin for years now.” Mr. David says. “I might not be completely immune to his charms, but over the years I've gotten very good at telling when he’s acting and when he actually needs something.”

“I can definitely confirm he’s not acting.” Malcolm says. “He’s running a really high fever, probably should see a doctor.”

“I’ve been trying to tell that to the administration, but you know how he is. He’s manipulated enough hospital employees that everyone was told to leave him be. To not listen to anything he says because he was being punished for a reason.”

Malcolm has to agree with him, but still, he shouldn’t suffer this way. He’d have to talk to the administrators himself. 

“Give me a second, then we’ll go talk with them together.”

“Back in bed.” Malcolm tosses the blanket on to the cot, and helps his father back on to the cot for the second time in ten minutes. 

“M’boy.” Martin says, his words beginning to slur together a bit. He’s so tired and fighting it, he’s sure that if he closes his eyes, he’ll wake up and Malcolm will still be dead. “You came back.”

“I sure did.” Malcolm says. 

“You’re not dead?”

“I’m not dead.” Malcolm says, unfolding the blanket and laying it over his father. “Got you this nice warm blanket.”

“S’nice.” Martin sighs, curling up tightly.

“Yep,” Malcolm says. “Gonna get you to the doctor, too.” 

“M’ a doctor.” Martin mumbles before his eyes finally fall closed and his breathing evens out. 

With _that_ taken care of, Malcolm turns to leave, Mr. David is still waiting for him at the door, ready to meet with the Claremont administration.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, just wanted to say that I do not believe that Martin tried to kill Malcolm on that camping trip. The circumstances surrounding his “confession” in his cell were a lot. I don't think that's something he would just openly admit to, not with Jessica's presence. And with him trying to control the situation and goad Malcolm into stabbing him. I JUST DON’T BUY IT! NOT FOR A SECOND!!!
> 
> and as a reminder, there is no incest in this fic, and any expressions of love are based on a fathers love for his son, non-romantically.
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to read the extremely self indulgent story :)

Malcolm marches right to the administration's offices, a place he’s spent a lot of time in over the years for various reasons. 

He’s not even asking for much, just that his father see a doctor and be cared for properly. But things are never quite that easy, even for him, and there is pushback. 

“Mr. Bright, I'm sure you understand that your father has on numerous occasions has attempted to, and oftentimes succeeded in manipulating staff to get what he wants.”

“I understand that, trust me, I know all too well.” Malcolm says. “But if one person had listened and checked they would have seen he was clearly sick, i mean, is this not a hospital too?”

“We specifically told all employee’s that they were to ignore all requests from Martin, he’s being punished and this is standard procedure. He’s been poorly behaved for weeks now.”

“And did you maybe stop and think for just one second, that if he had been told that I wasn’t dead his behavior might have improved?”

“Again Mr. Bright, Martin is being punished, he is not allowed to have any news from outside.”

“He’s also not supposed to have visitors, yet you let Lieutenant Arroyo and myself into see him.” Malcolm argues. “You wouldn’t have this situation at all if Gil hadn’t been allowed to see him.”

“He’s done this before, act sick to get out of a punishment.”

“He’s not acting, I felt the fever for myself, trust me when I say he could see the doctor.” Malcolm almost yells, he feels like he's been running in circles for the last hour. He was this close to taking ibuprofen down to Martin’s cell himself. 

“Listen, you are running a psychiatric hospital, so this feels silly to have to explain, but in my opinion.” Malcolm says, forcing his words to be calm. “This is a classic example of compounding physical stress and mental stress being expressed as a physical illness.”

They had been read to shoot him down again, that was until he threatened them with a call from the family lawyer. It was amazing how quickly an agreement was reached after that. 

He let them know that he’d be returning tomorrow, and that he expected his father to be properly cared for and coherent when he arrived. 

\--------------------------

When Malcolm returns the next day, Mr David is there to take him back to Martin’s isolation cell, looking much happier. 

Mr. David opens the door for him, and when he steps inside, he’s relieved to see that Martin is at the very least lucid. 

“Son?” Martin says, seemingly surprised to see Malcolm. His voice is still very hoarse, but he is looking better, not visibly shivering anymore. “I was half convinced that I dreamt yesterday.”

“Nope.” Malcolm says, popping the p at the end of the word. “You’re looking better.”

“I am feeling better. I suppose I should say thank you.” Martin says, fingers rubbing the edge of his blanket. “I understand you’re the reason I was able to see the doctor.”

“Yeah, but don’t think I’m going to make a habit of getting you things in here.” Malcolm warns. 

“Of course not, I wouldn't dream of it.” Martin says happily, when he eventually gains his privileges back he won’t need much anyway, just the precious time with his son. “So, you must have come back for a reason, besides checking up on your old man.”

“I’m actually here to talk.” Malcolm says. “Watkins had a lot to say, he was especially talkative about our camping trip.”

“Oh, good lord.” Martin sighs, this was not going to be a fun conversation. “What did he have to say?”

“He confirmed that the girl in the box was there.” Malcolm says. “And that you did take care of her yourself. Got pretty angry when I brought her up though.”

“How many times do I need to warn you that you should just leave well enough alone.” Martin just rolls his eyes, he’s so tired of hearing about this girl. “It’s for your own good.”

“Do you wanna know what else I learned about while he had me locked up?”

“It sounds like i’m not going to get much of a choice.” Martin says, dreading what kind of nonsense his old ‘friend’ put in his son’s head. 

“He said that you took me on that camping trip to kill me.” Malcolm says, a weight lifting from his shoulders as the words leave his mouth. 

Everything stops for Martin in that moment, he should have known Watkins would go for that particular wound. “No, I…. I could never do that.” Something tightens around his chest again, a feeling he does not welcome back, and tears prickle the corners of his eyes. 

“Why not, I knew more than i was supposed to, didn’t I?” Malcolm says, spewing all the thoughts he’s had over the last few weeks. “It would have been so easy to take me on a camping trip, manufacture an ‘accident’, you bring along Watkins as a witness.”

“No, stop it.” Martin begs, his breathing going shallow. 

“Then I'm out of the picture, you’re free to keep killing, no chance that i’ll spill the beans to the wrong person.” 

“That’s not true! I would not,” Martin yells, standing suddenly and getting right in Malcolm's face. The room starts spinning around him. “try to kill…” Martin trails off mid sentence, his ears ringing. “my son.” The steel band around his chest tightens even more, and he’s pretty sure it’s not the room that's moving, he’s the one that’s tilting. “It was…. I need…”

“Hey, hey.” Malcolm steadys Martin on reflex, guiding him so he falls backwards onto his cot instead of on to the concrete. 

Martin lies there, feeling like he’s floating, tumbling around, heat spreading from where Malcolm touched his arms, the ghosts of touches lost in a haze of fever flooding back. Martin's breaths continue to come in short gasps, steadily turning into more wheeze than anything else, and he feels powerless to stop it. 

“Ok, um, you need to calm down.” Malcolm says, instantly recognizing what’s happening, having experienced many attacks himself. Though he’s never been on this side, he’s never had to calm someone else down. He wracks his mind for what he usually does when he has one. “You're having another panic attack, I'm going to get someone.”

“NO!” Martin gasps, a stuttering wheeze getting caught in his chest. Tears spill from the corners of his eyes. He locks eyes with Malcolm, who is leaning over him, hands hovering but not touching. In his panicked state, desperate to keep Malcolm close, he grasps blindly, fingers flexing in the air, seeking out his son, seeking touch, seeking comfort. 

“Ok, ok, try to take a deep breath.” Malcolm instructs, slipping one of his hands into his fathers, Martin instantly gripping tightly, the one single point of contact grounding, already helping to ease the pressure on his chest, each breath coming easier. “There you go.” 

It only takes a short time before Martin has calmed himself, still having a death grip on Malcolm’s hand. 

“You want to let go, maybe?” Malcolm asks, flexing his fingers. 

Martin nods numbly, he really doesn’t want to let go, doesn’t want to give up the little bit of contact, but he allows Malcolm to pull free. He tries to sit back up, feeling even more exhausted than he had before.

“Don’t sit up just yet, give it a second.” Malcolm chides, but grabs the blankets and drapes it over Martin’s shoulders anyway when he doesn’t listen. 

“I’m okay.” Martin says, dazed and breathless, holding the edge of the blanket, pulling it snug around his shoulders. “Sorry, to even think about…” He chokes up, can’t even bring himself to say it aloud. 

“Malcolm, I you, your mother, even your sister will never believe this, but I love my family.” Martin says. 

“You can’t love anyone but yourself, you’re a psychopath.” 

“That’s… that’s not fair.” Martin says, somber, his voice hushed. “I thought you were dead, and it destroyed me. When that cop came here, told me that Watkins had taken you, my first thought was he finally did it.” 

“Excuse me?” Malcolm says.

“It was his idea to kill you on that trip, since I insisted on bringing you along.”

“Was I not a part of the plan originally?”

Martin shakes his head. “He was not supportive of the addition, I'm sure you noticed that he doesn’t like to have his plans changed whatsoever.” Malcolm nods, Watkins was defintely neurotic in that way. 

“He thought you were a liability. I didn’t see it, was blind to it, obviously.” Martin says. “God, I was so naive. We should have called the whole thing off right then, but I thought I had a handle on things.” 

“What were we up there to do exactly?” Malcolm asks, hoping Martin might spill some information in his over emotional state. 

“That doesn’t matter now.” Martin says. “He did try to kill you, you know, as soon as I turned my back for a second.” 

“He said I stabbed him, in self defense.” Malcolm says, unconsciously resting his good hand over the healing stab wound on his chest. 

“Ahh, you sure did.” Martin says, a small but fond smile on his face. “I was so proud of you for that. We parted ways after that. I was pretty disappointed when i found out he survived, but i thought i had made it very clear that my family was off limits. That you were off limits, but it’s clear he felt brave when I was taken out of the picture.”

They sit in silence for a while after that. Malcolm, trying to make sense of everything he’s learned in the past few weeks, unsure of who to believe, and Martin just enjoying sitting next to his son, close enough that he can feel the warmth coming off of him. 

Malcolm is startled out of his thoughts when Martin starts talking again. 

“I may be a psychopath,” Martin says. “But I truly do not believe I would have been able to kill my own son, not to mention what it would have done to your mother. She would have been absolutely crushed, and I would never do _that_ to her.”

“Even if it meant you wouldn’t have been caught?” Malcolm asks, genuinely curious. “If it meant stopping me from calling the police?”

“Well, you know what they say about hindsight.” Martin says with a small, hollow sounding laugh. “That was, perhaps, an ill timed joke.”

“It’s fine,” Malcolm says, sighing. “Pretty sure a sick sense of humor is prerequisite to be a Whitly.”

“What I’m trying to say, Malcolm,” Martin says, looking at Malcolm with hope for the first time in weeks. “And I know you’ll never believe this, but I love you, and I couldn’t ever have killed you.”

“Um, ok, well thanks.” Malcolm looks around the room awkwardly, pushing up from the bed and knocking on the cell door. He’s just about done with this visit. It had not been nearly as productive as he had wanted it to be, in fact, he’s taken a few steps backward figuring out anything with the girl in the box, and the camping trip. “I’ve gotta go, I'll come back when you’re not in isolation anymore.” 

“Don’t be a stranger.” Martin calls out as the door to his cell closes, leaving him alone once again, disappointment flooding through him because Malcolm didn’t say he loved him back.


End file.
